flit away [c]

Memories filled her mind and her pawsteps as she moved towards the border that was shared with Windclan. A recollection of the blood that had been spilled upon the last time that she came here, of the way that she fought parallel to her mentor. Her leader. A warcry that had rung out in response to the treason that had trespassed, a note that their behavior would not be tolerated by Riverclan. But now... now, she was coming with desperate steps. Steps that were hopeful to carry her towards some semblance of cleaner water, or perhaps even food she could bring back. IT was not as if the fish would be of any use. Fishing of any kind had practically been banned, as there was no way to guarantee it had not somehow absorbed the ilk that penetrated their rivers.

Blending in with much more accuracy with the fox pelt adorned on her back, Egretswoop's steps had her gliding with an odd ease. Despite the hunger that gnarled at her belly, it still felt natural to move on the prowl. Part of her had absorbed the mannerisms of the pelt she wore, moving as the predator would. It gave her the confidence she needed, allowed her to attempt to accomplish her mission. If that was all it took? She'd take it.

It wasn't long before her nose picked up the scent of a new presence across the river. The breeze had been blowing the scent of the moors directly across and towards her, which had carried the distant traces alongside it. Blinking, her honey-colored eyes peered directly across. "Across the waters, new steps fall. Are they foe, or simply a passer-by?" She questioned, her voice being made loud enough to carry across as she pondered aloud.

Coyotegrin was underground, leaving Kestrelchirp to wander and keep watch for any predators... When a voice called upon the wind and left him frozen mid-step. Such an interesting way to approach a cat.. Loosening up his shoulders, Kestrelchirp turned and pushed his way to the other side of the dead grass and found himself not far from the border. A RiverClan sat there, a fox pelt fixed upon her. Quizzically, he studied her for a few seconds.

"Well, considering you're the one that looks like a fox... I suppose you're the only predator here." He ended the statement by flashing a grin towards the molly and taking a few steps closer. "I'm Kestrelchirp." He offered, his usual friendly voice a smooth and rich tone.

A primal part of her felt particular satisfaction as she watched the other cat freeze at her voice carrying across the gorge. Perhaps it was due to the fox pelt that she donned, as it allowed her to near-fully step into the role of a predator. A brief grin came to her features, though it was likely hard to see from across the waters that separated them. There was something thrilling to her about seeing an unfamiliar face.

As his voice would respond, her ears swiveled forward to listen. Interesting... his voice didn't immediately cause her the desire to flinch away. Perhaps it was due to their distance. Another flash of a grin, pearly white teeth matching the color of her true pelt. His name, though... Kestrelchirp. Amusing, since his voice hardly sounded like a chirp. If anything, it reminded her of the smooth calling of loons, rather than the piercing, clipped sounds that many birds made. "Egretswoop," She offered in turn. "Do you fear the feline in a fox's pelt? Since you deign it so important to make a comment." Her tail flicked. After all, if he assumed her to take the role of a predator, it would only be fitting to withstand it. "The Gorge is under the river's domain, thus it is my duty to defend it should it be necessary. Though... you speak with a song of a loon: a much mellower melody. I see no reason to jump to bloodshed so quickly, should you continue to respect the border." It was the obligatory statement of warning that flowed from her tongue, the double-tails that swayed behind her flicking.

Kestrelchirp looked down at the Gorge flowing beneath them and back up to Egretswoop across the gap. What an interesting cat. The young warrior tended to find most cats interesting, but this one particularly pulled him in. A RiverClan cat, with a pelt, that speaks in such an elegant way. He had known ShadowClan cats to wear pelts, but never RiverClan cats. "I may be named after a bird, but I cannot fly." He said with a grin, pawing at the edge of the gorge and flicking his tail across the dead grass. "And you are in RiverClan, but have a pelt like ShadowClan. That must be an interesting tale, if you care to share." Taking a seat, Kestrelchirp showed he had no intention of budging. Unless, of course, Coyotegrin came along...

She found most company intruiging. At least, she found company that did not immediately cause her ears to wish to be clawed off intruiging. It was particularly rare to have such a situation occur, so when it did, she wanted to make the most of it. The last time she had found a cat who piqued such interest she had been at the Twolegplace farm, staring at an onyx-pelted tom who had a silver tongue. His eyes did not ever leave her memory, and for just a moment, she had hoped to see him again. But that was not her present. Instead, she was observing a particularly different cat. One with a sleeker pelt, but who also had similarly long fur and eyes. Though his eyes were much more of a copper than true amber, their warmth caught her attention even beyond the gorge. His cinnamon pelt particularly was easy on her eyes, reminding her of the mental image of long grasses she pictured whenever thinking about Windclan.

As he sat, she felt her obligatory hackles lower. Good. She would not have to unsheathe her claws against a potential friend. It was perhaps a bit too strong of a title, 'friend,' but there were few other words that she knew that properly bridged the gap between acquaintance and friend. However, his words particularly caught her interest. Shadowclan cats wearing pelts? Part of her was offended to be likened to the marsh-dwellers, but her surprise was clear on her face as her head raised and ears stood tall. "It is news to me that there are other Clans that wear pelts." Egretswoop admitted, making note to potentially try and meet some of these other pelt-wearing cats. Did they wear it for similar reasons as her mother? Had Brick simply been separated from Shadowclan, and truly belonged there? She had been told it was a tradition that came beyond the Clans. Had she been separated from her kin?

Such were questions that would not be answered in the present time. After a moment of silence aloud, but loud pondering within her mind, her head snapped back to the tom across the gorge. He had requested her to tell the tale of her fox pelt. Right. "The hide of one's choice is a birthright of my family. A tradition bestowed to me from my mother when she lived beyond the Clans during a time she called Asylum. Once strong enough, a young feline's first foe becomes a pelt for them to wear as a symbol of strength. It may not always be a predator, for my mother dons the pelt of a hare." Such information was hardly secret. Any cat would spot her mother at a gathering and see the long ears atop a cat's body. Harebounce was a hard cat to miss, especially given her mannerisms. But she adored her mother all the same. "They serve great purpose in helping keep warm during times of cold... or famine." It was hard to deny the current state of the forest. "Were you to don the pelt of a predator, what would be your choice, Kestrelchirp of Windclan?"

Kestrelchirp listened to the RiverClan cat intently, the woosh of the wind through the Gorge sometimes drowning out some words. This only caused him to listen more intently and study the she-cat. Her pelt was mostly disguised by her pelt, but the white beneath it was nearly blinding and caught the light of the sun to cause a glimmer. Swallowing, he felt himself pulled into the she-cat's aura. He wanted to go closer. Talk to her on a less intimidating level. Perhaps, at the next Gathering he would seek her out to answer the call of the draw he felt. Despite the chilly air, his pelt felt warm.

"What a beautiful history and practice. WindClan has nothing of the sort." He resisted the urge to look backwards to where his mother attempted to dig in the hardening moor. Instead, he shifted his weight as if in contemplation for Egretswoop's follow up question.

"Well, Egretswoop of RiverClan with the pelt of a fox, I am unsure entirely. Our major predator are dogs, and a kestrel is much too small for a pelt.. We do eat a lot of hares though, like your Mother's pelt. We have weasels, but they aren't much of a battle. I can take one down myself, and they are icky creatures... Sometimes we have foxes as well, in the burrows... But my mother, Coyotegrin, she hates foxes. Her first mate and her first litter of children were all killed by foxes, so sometimes they call her Foxblood because she killed two single handedly. She has a fox pelt too, some ShadowClan cat taught her how to skin it but... She doesn't wear it." Kestrelchirp paused, realizing he was rambling on and on about something Egretswoop probably does not care about. Clearing his throat, he shifted again awkwardly.

"Not to steal your mother's image, but I think I would also have a hare. I admire them. They are incredibly fast, intelligent, and live underground. They are always observant, but enjoy stopping to smell the flowers. They have a sense of wisdom about them, if you watch them closely when they don't know you're there." Kestrelchirp concluded his musings, embarrassed about the ramble.

"Every Clan has a cultural practice, even as simple as Riverclan's dedication and pledge to our river." Egretswoop was quick to comment, a tilt of her head following that would have been somewhat hard to see from across the gorge. Had the waters not been rushing in such a lethal display, she would have lept across, catching one of the few clusters of stones that jutted out amongst the river's waves to allow for easier conversation without properly crossing a border. After all, while she had been the one to first issue a warning of borders and boundaries, she could just as easily cross onto Windclan's side and place herself in trouble's path.

Though he offered none of Windclan's secrets in turn, it was understandable. Such an exchange would be treason against their Clans, and what the secretive molly shared was not something integral to Riverclan's deepest secrets. As she thought about it, there was little that wasn't obvious about them. Their affinity for the river was what held their secrets, and she would bow to her river queen for all of her days.

It did not stop her, though, from listening to the story that Kestrelchirp shared. Her whiskers had twitched as he spoke her name, enjoying the manner in which it rolled off of his tongue. Her forest-name was the one she heard most often, though she held a stronger affinity to her Asylum name that had been a gift of her mother. Milk. For her alabaster pelt that resembled the life-giving liquid all kits survived off of. During troubled times of her youth she had interpreted it to mean she would forever be kittish, but in time, she had wisened to realize that it had symbolized the way she breathed life. Exuded it. So, she kept it as a close-guarded treasure.

Coyotegrin, or Foxblood. Such a name was imprinted into her memory. Understandably, the named warrior did not wear the pelt of the killers who had taken much of her family. "I, too, would find it hard to wear the pelt of my kin's murderer." Sympathy laced her words as a finely-woven web, her head dipping in reverence towards the lost souls that had been taken by the predators. Raising her head back up, though, her ears swiveled once more towards Kestrelchirp as he seemed to clear away the subject at-paw.

Though hard to see beneath the fox pelt, her maw widened to a smile. "I find it of no surprise that a mooren feline would wear a pelt of a hare. Tactical, too, to wear that of your prey of affinity." That was one thing that she did know about Windclan: They ran the moors, and ate rabbits. After all, the lands were flat and plentiful for them to make their burrows. Did Windclan cats use those burrows at all? Likely not, they would be too small to be of much use to a full-grown cat. "Friendly faces, those creatures have. A commendable, respectful choice." The information was tucked away into her mind for another time. Perhaps, if another hare the size of the one her mother had made a pelt from crossed into their lands again, she would craft it into a pelt for Kestrelchirp. Would it be too far to provide him a gift? Perhaps not, if she asked for something in turn.

That had prompted an idea. "If I crafted you a pelt of a hare, would you perhaps trade? A pelt, for a rabbit that Riverclan may enjoy? Our claws are not trained to catch them, so they are a delicacy."